sing me to sleep
by SiriCerasi
Summary: "The first night he shows up Mick is snoring, and Sara is the only one awake." A fake 5 times fic (10 lost count fic?). Crook and Assassin show up in each others' rooms. All the time. It sounds fluffier than it is, because me.


I'm uploading some of my completed work over from AO3 =)

* * *

 **xxx**

 _there is something passing, casting these shadows_  
 _how they make their way into my mind_

 **xxx**

The first night he shows up Mick is snoring, and Sara is the only one awake. She shoots him an amused look and tosses him a pillow, pointing at the floor, and returns to sharpening her weapons. The sound doesn't distract him as much as he'd expected, and is certainly better than Mick's snores, and he falls asleep absently counting out the strokes in his head.

The second time the group is celebrating, enough alcohol to make them almost rowdy. Leonard's head is pounding, so he stays at the outskirts and tries not to think too loudly.

Sara drifts over, head tilted questioningly, and his pain must be written on his face, because he finds her leading him back to his room. Away from the noise he feels tense muscles begin to relax, and can't help a small sigh of relief.

Sara doesn't say anything, just makes sure he gets to his bed before collapsing and shuts off the lights on the way out.

The third time Kendra and Ray are having very loud sex in the room next to hers, and Sara shows up ready to kill something. Leonard grins, Mick rolls over in his sleep, and Sara curls up at the end of his bed like she belongs there.

The fourth time his room is far too quiet.

Sara looks up like she'd been expecting him; maybe she had. She doesn't throw him a pillow, just shifts over on her bed, and he hurts too much to turn her down.

His pillow is damp when he starts to drift off to sleep, and if her fingers trace patterns on his back in the dark, neither of them mention it.

The fifth time he's newly reacquainted with his hand, walking back to his room when he finds her just standing in her doorway, staring.

Two years, he remembers. Two _years_. She'd left her League attire in Nanda Parbat but her hair is still done up in braids, intricate enough that someone must have done it for her. He wonders absently if they have servants, or if all the assassins sit around braiding each others' hair. He wonders how long it'd been for Mick, and he touches her back because thinking hurts too much.

She jumps, and there's a flash of steel in her hand and ice in her eyes before she realizes it's him, instantly relaxing.

"Sorry," she mutters. He shakes his head and looks into her room, a half-eaten energy bar sitting on the table. Hours old. Years old. Her hand shakes where she's gripping the bag she'd brought back with the few things she'd kept and he takes it in his, gently.

Her hair is soft, silky against his new hand as he carefully undoes her braids, seated behind her on her bed. She's curled with her chin on her knees, and he remembers with a soft smile doing this for Lisa, so long ago. When he's done she doesn't look at him, doesn't say anything, just lays down with her back to him, looking somehow very small.

He settles behind her, pulls a blanket over them and whispers, "Welcome home, Sara." Pretends he doesn't hear the way her breath catches, or feel the way her fingers shake when she grips his hand in hers.

For many nights after that she sleeps between him and the door, and keeps the phantom, looming presence of what was once Mick from haunting too close.

He's lost count when she has Gideon open his door, ice pack and first aid kit in her hands. He can tell she's furious by the set of her jaw, the icy glare on her face, the way she refuses to speak. But her fingers betray her, gentle as they patch him up.

She dumps the ice pack on his bed and stands to leave and the panic sets in, deep in his chest, swallowing him whole. When he chokes out, "Stay," she freezes, turns back slowly with a blank expression on her face. For a moment he thinks she'll ignore him, she'll leave him alone in this frenzied, frigid darkness, but an instant later she's stretched beside him, head on his shoulder, fingers soothing circles on his skin.

"Sleep," she murmurs.

He does.

Watching her cradle his sleeping infant self is strange, to say the least. So is watching teenage Mick hit on teenage Sara, with much the same effect as when current Mick tries to get into what was once his and Leonard's room. Rip makes Sara promise not to break any other teammates noses. Leonard smiles for the first time in weeks.

He doesn't think she sleeps after that; he's not sure any of them do. At least not until Savage is locked in their cage - Savage, who SHOULD be dead. Who is somehow, impossibly, taunting them all from the heart of their domain.

That night - that night they're strung out, worn to the bone, stretched far past what any of them should be able to handle. That night she's practically vibrating with nervous energy, pacing the room until he's dizzy from watching her, and he digs the heels of his hands into his eyes and croaks, " _Sara_."

She stops suddenly, frozen, the contrast jarring. "He should be dead," she spits, not looking at him.

"I know."

"I _want_ him dead."

"I know."

Her shoulders slump and she meets his eyes, finally, gaze raw and so worn. He holds out a hand and she comes, melting into him, body molded to his as he lays them both down.

"I'm so tired," she whispers, buried in his chest. His fingers tangle in her hair, playing with the strands as she slowly calms down.

"I know," he says one last time. He presses his lips to her forehead, holds her close against the darkness Savage's presence brings, against the finality the night seems to hold.

He doesn't bother counting after that, not until it's seconds toward the end, precious moments he's buying her, ushering her to safety and his own final sleep.

 **xxx**

 _and i'm not alone_

 **xxx**

* * *

sing me to sleep (waking ashland)


End file.
